I hold Irene in my arms. And yes, she looks like a rag. Like a worn-out, tattered old blanket. Something used up to its limit, wrung dry by life, then tossed aside without remorse. Oh, Irene. I want to cry, but of course, I can't. I'm a vampire—and vampires don't cry. We don't have tears. I cradle the love of my life in my arms, as if my body could shield her from all the pain she's already endured. I look at Du la Font.
"What is this? What's happening? What are you trying to do?"
"You've shown resolve, my young friend. You've proven to me that you are no longer the wretched little vermin I once knew. Perhaps that strength was always there, lying dormant. But I'll admit—I refused to see it. I didn't want to. And, of course, part of the blame lies with Agnes— that insolent little brat I gave immortality to and whom, out of some flaw of the heart or mere nostalgia, I continue to indulge with unwarranted tenderness. But the truth is, you've conducted yourself with a firmness of spirit that I respect more than I care to admit. True courage is rare—even among our kind. And don't fool yourself: vampires, despite their theatrical bravado, rarely possess the bravery they boast about."
"Agnes once told me that to be a vampire, you had to be afraid of nothing."
"By now, I imagine you've realized that the words of my sweet girl are hardly a solid foundation on which to build your truths."
I look at Irene. Her beautiful face—the one that made me sigh and smile so many times—is no longer where it should be. Now her face is just a shriveled raisin, the kind that gets lost at the back of a kitchen drawer. It's strange. She looks nothing like the Irene I saw for the first time at that boring-ass college party packed with stuck-up rich kids. Nothing like the Irene I had championship-level sex with, or the one who lived in constant motion, like the world was her playground. No, this ruined soul in my arms doesn't resemble that Irene. But I know it's her. I know. I wish she could speak. Say something. Remember me. But I know she can't.
I look at Du la Font and say:
"Thank you. Even if you throw us both in there right now—thank you. Thank you for letting me touch her. For letting me see her, even for a moment."
"No, boy. I won't send you in there. Not now. Neither you nor Irene will have to worry about Hell today. And look, I'm going to grant you something very few ever receive from me: an opportunity. You'll leave this cavern through the other side. And your girl—yes, that broken soul in your arms—she'll be reborn."
"And me?"
"You'll remain a vampire, of course. But this time, you'll be free."
We exit the cavern through the far end, where the souls that will return to the world gather. I know Irene won't recognize me. I won't get a chance to talk to her now. But hell—who cares? What matters is that she'll be alive. And I'll look for her. And I'll find her. And we'll be happy again.
"Your new life won't be easy, son. The path of freedom rarely is," Du la Font tells me. And now, I can't help but feel admiration, respect—even affection—for him.
I feel like I'd do anything Du la Font asked. I swear. I'd be his lackey, his servant, his disciple. A fanatic for Team Du la Font. If that old bastard ran for president of the glorious vampire nation, I wouldn't just vote for him—I'd campaign, hang posters, pass out flyers, dress like a damn bat if I had to. Because Du la Font isn't just any vampire—he's a knight of the old world. A man of codes, of strength, of style. Du la Font, damn it! I'd be his cheerleader. Pom-poms and all. Gimme a D! Gimme a U…!
I say:
"I know, Edmundo. I know it won't be easy. Especially when I don't even know how to use my powers."
"You'll learn. Eventually. This is a craft. If you're not lucky enough to have a good mentor, then you learn through patience, time, and discipline. Like art, boy. Painting, writing, making films. If you give yourself fully to the work, you'll eventually create something worthwhile. Unfortunately, you had the misfortune of being born from a capricious creature who never intended to teach you a thing. But that's no excuse to stay useless. It'll be harder for you, yes. Much harder. But if you don't give up—if you persist—you'll discover what kind of power you're capable of. And personally, I think you'll be surprised. Because, against all odds, you've proven you're not throwaway material."
"Will I see Agnes again?"
"Oh, certainly. I'll grow bored of her, as I always do, and I'll let her go. And of course, she'll come looking for you. But we won't make it easy for her, will we?"
"I can't let her get near Irene."
"Absolutely not. If that girl dies again as a human, it's over. Forever. I won't lift a finger to help you again, that much is certain. Your duty is to protect her. And you must protect her using your gifts. You're a vampire, boy. You can't protect her like some pathetic mortal. And another thing—you can't approach her as her guardian. You can only approach her as what you are: a creature that feeds on the living."
"When can I turn her into a vampire?"
"First, boy, learn to walk before you try to run. Think about your powers. They won't reveal themselves through magic. You'll have to develop them, one by one, as it should be. And in case you've forgotten, there are rules. Ancient, unbreakable ones. You'll have to follow them all."
"And what are those rules?" I ask.
"There's no need for me to list them like you're some kid in his first catechism class. Now that you're alone, you'll learn them the most effective way: through error and punishment. Trust me, it's better this way. It'll make you stronger."
"You said we'd make it hard for Agnes."
"And we will. You and your Irene will be sent to another era. That will make it significantly harder for her to find you. It'll buy you time."
"Irene and I… we're going to the past?"
"Or the future. But I don't recommend that. You'd struggle to adapt to technologies and customs you don't understand—and more so as an inexperienced vampire, as clumsy as a pup among wolves. It's not a time for novices. It's better to choose a time you can acclimate to more naturally. And if you'll take my advice: don't go too far back. Infant mortality was brutal in centuries past, even among the wealthy. You wouldn't want your dear Irene to die before she turns ten. That'd be a miserable beginning."
I look at Du la Font. What an extraordinary bastard. Seriously. That vampire is something else. Like a god. I can't help but wonder if one day I could be like him. I want to be like him—maybe even better. And of course, Edmundo hears my thoughts.
Du la Font says:
"You could try. I won't forbid it. But know this—if I ever sense that you're becoming too powerful, beyond what I deem acceptable, I'll have to kill you. No hard feelings, of course. But let's not get sidetracked. Tell me, boy—where do you want to go?"
"If it's better not to go too far back, then the fifties. 1955. Like in Back to the Future."
I look at Irene. Yeah, she looks like a shriveled raisin. I don't care. I smile. I love her. We're going back to the world. We'll get another chance.